Grace Curtis Author Photo.jpeg

Vladimir and Estragon

 

The day is bathed in the uneasy light 

of irreverence. It's like this each day—

the day dressing in a form 

 

it's been given; or, rather, 

falling into it without thought,

as if it were a calling. I want 

 

to call upon a bird 

to fill in the empty spaces. 

I want this to be about wingspan 

 

and instinct, about how a bird finds

shelter in the green leaves of a lilac bush.

How it waits. Have you ever noticed

 

how things wait; how 

a cat skulks at the perimeter, 

moving nothing? Even when no leaf

 

lifts, he waits. An experiment, 

that began years ago, observes 

coal tar pitch fall, one drop 

 

at a time, once every decade. 

The cat waits, the day buttons 

itself into whatever cloak 

 

it's handed, the bird holds

its breath in the thicket. Coal tar pitch

gathers into a tear and waits.

 

 

 

 

everything-gets-old-cover-1400x2100.jpg

Read my blog at

www.n2poetry.com